Curiosity (6 page)

“
Non
. I believe he trusts me to keep his secret.” He leaned in closer to me and said softly, “Speaking of secrets, you must not let Maelzel know how much I've told you. He would be angry.”

“Why did you tell me, then?”

“Because. Because I put you in this position; it is only right that I warn you of the risks involved.”

“It's a bit late for that, isn't it?”

He shrugged apologetically. “
Oui
, I suppose it is.” He patted my shoulder. “But not to worry; you're perfectly safe as long you do not make the mistake of telling anyone about the Turk. And in any case, I'll be around to make certain that nothing happens to you.”

Somehow, I didn't find his reassurances very comforting. A chill went through me, but not the sort I was used to. This was not a symptom of ague; it was the sickening feeling of having fallen into dangerous, dark waters that were over my head. I shivered and pulled the jacket close around me.

Regular visiting hours at the prison were long past, but when Mulhouse slipped a banknote into the keeper's hand he readily let us into the debtors' apartment. My father was sitting on the stone floor of his cell with his blankets wrapped about him; he had a small notebook propped on his knees and was making entries in his meticulous handwriting by the light of an almost-extinct candle. His cellmates were asleep, two of them on stained straw mattresses. Softly, I called, “Father?”

He looked up muzzily, like a man waking from a dream. When he saw me, his face brightened. “Rufus!” One of the sleepers stirred and grumbled, “Be quiet, would you?” My father whispered “Sorry” and, rising stiffly, ushered us into the hallway. He embraced me carefully, as he always did, as though fearful of crushing my slight frame. “I'm so pleased to see you. I've been wondering how you were getting along. Is Mrs. Runnymead looking after you?”

“I'm not at the boardinghouse, Father. Monsieur Mulhouse got me a job with—with—” I remembered my promise to Maelzel, that I would reveal nothing to anyone. For the first time in my life, I had to lie to my father, and I couldn't quite manage it.

“With a firm that constructs dioramas and automata,” Mulhouse finished smoothly.

“Really?” said my father, with obvious delight. “Like those at Peale's Museum?” Peale's, I should explain, was a popular attraction at the time. Billed as “An Encyclopedia of God's Wondrous Creation,” it contained a dizzying display of exhibits and curiosities, from mammoth bones and Egyptian mummies to Siamese twins and a cow with five legs and two tails.

“Exactly,” said Mulhouse. “Rufus is apprenticing to one of the craftsmen.”

“Indeed! I always imagined he might become a schoolmaster one day, but this is far more interesting!” He grabbed Mulhouse's hand and shook it energetically. “Thank you for helping my son. As you see, I'm not in a position to do much for him at the moment. Do they provide him with room and board?”

“He sleeps on the premises. And I suppose they feed you well, don't they, Rufus?”

“Oh, yes,” I lied. “I'm to receive wages, too. When I do, I'll pay the keeper to get you a bed and some better food, Father.”

He smiled and patted my arm gingerly. “Thank you, my boy, but it's really not necessary. I'd rather you kept the money for yourself. I'm doing well enough. I'm as strong as Brazilian tea. It's you I worry about. You're like your mother, I fear—too fragile for this harsh world. You're a good boy, Rufus, but Nature cares nothing for goodness. It's the most fit who are most likely to survive.” He paused, and gave a sheepish laugh. “Sorry, I sound as though I'm promoting
The Development of
Species
, don't I?” He held up the notebook in which he'd been writing. “If I keep at it, I'll have a second volume soon. You know, if you do have a few extra pennies sometime, you might just bring me some writing paper. It keeps my mind occupied.”

As the keeper showed us out, Mulhouse handed the man several more banknotes. “Will you see to it that the Reverend Goodspeed is given a bed and regular meals? I shall come back in a week or so; if everything is satisfactory, you will have my gratitude—about a dollar's worth of it, I should imagine.”

When we were alone on the dark streets again, Mulhouse said, “Your father seems a decent man. I wish I could pay his creditors and have him released. But, to put it as delicately as possible, I find myself financially embarrassed. Since I left Maelzel's employ, all I have is the little I make tutoring players at the Chess Club.”

“Thank you for giving that money to the keeper.”

“You are welcome.” He coughed and reached for his lozenges again. “Actually, I suppose that, in some sense, the money was yours, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, awkwardly, “it was what remained of the fee that Maelzel had promised me if I would find a new chess player for him.”

So, though I had not yet seen a cent, Mulhouse had been paid for bringing me in, like a bounty hunter who is rewarded for capturing runaway slaves. But I am being overly dramatic. My situation, of course, was far better than that of even the most fortunate slave. Still, I didn't like the notion that I was some sort of commodity.

When I took the job, I had felt a certain amount of pride; I saw myself as someone who possessed a valuable skill and, like any good craftsman or artist, could use that skill to earn a living for himself. I was beginning to see that, in reality, I was no more than a curiosity that could be bought and sold and put on display, like the Feejee Mermaid or the Turk.

A
FTER CURSING AND POKING AT THE
voice box for another two days, Jacques finally got it to speak proper French. When the still headless Turk clearly said the words
“Échec et mat,”
Jacques thrust his muscular arms into the air and roared,
“Enfin! J'ai triomphe!”
Then he burst into a horrible, rasping rendition of “La Marseillaise”:
“Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé!”
I couldn't help laughing, but he seemed not to mind.

“
Maintenant
,” he said, “we may give Otso back his head.” He glanced at the high shelf where the head sat and seemed to notice for the first time the rag I'd draped over it. He turned to glare accusingly at me, the way the head glared at me before I covered it.

I shrugged. “I thought you'd want to keep the dust off it.”

“Hmm.
Eh, bien
, fetch it for me, then. And be very,
very
careful,
Bébé
; if you damage it, I will have
your
head.”

As I climbed onto the chair, I was trembling, for two very different reasons: I was afraid of dropping the head, of course; as I've said, I was not at all strong. But at the same time I was reluctant to take hold of it; I think I half expected it to squirm in protest, perhaps even bite me.

The thing was heavier than I'd imagined, but somehow I managed to lift it down and carry it to Jacques unscathed. He handed me the cloth, which I used to wipe my sweating palms. In an unsteady voice, I said, “Why do you call him Otso?”

Jacques scowled at me again. He had the wax head in both hands, so there was no way he could strike me; still, I shrank back. “Why do
you
insist on speaking,” he said, “when I have told you to keep your
grande gueule
shut?” He turned his attention to the task of attaching the Turk's head to his neck and splicing the thin wires that controlled the various movements. I stood by, like a surgeon's apprentice, ready to hand him each tool when he called for it.

As he performed the delicate surgery, his tongue protruded from the side of his mouth, like that of a child making a drawing. The curses that usually punctuated his work were almost absent. He seemed so absorbed in what he was doing that it surprised me when he muttered, “The original Otso was a companion of mine, back when I was young and stupid and wanted to be a soldier.” He paused and gazed into the distance for a moment. “In the Basque language, the name Otso means
wolf
.”

“What became of him?”

“What usually becomes of soldiers? He died, of course.”

“In battle?”

For a long moment, Jacques made no reply. At last he gave a barely perceptible nod. “
Oui
. In my arms. Bravely, with a smile on his face.” He stopped working and rubbed his palms over his eyes as though the close work had strained them. Then he gruffly called out, “
Pinces
.”

“Is that pliers?”

“Yes, yes, pliers!” Shoving me out of the way, he snatched them up himself.
“Imbécile.”

When at last the Turk was whole again, Jacques said, “
Et voilà
. Now I will show you how to operate the machine.”

Without thinking, I said, “I can do it already. I've been practicing.”

He struck me across the cheek with one rough hand. I staggered backward and the corner of the cabinet rammed into my ribs. “
Petite sotte!
You might have damaged it!”

“But I didn't—”

His hand closed around one of my thin wrists and twisted it. “
Ça suffit!
This is
my
workshop, and
I
make the rules, and the rules are: You will do things only when I tell you to do them, and you will . . . ?” He looked at me expectantly. When I said nothing, he shook me and repeated, “And you will . . . ?”

“I will speak only when you tell me to,” I said, in a strained voice. When he released me, I said under my breath, “Just like the Turk.”

If he heard this, he ignored it. “
Eh, bien
, now that you understand, let me see what you can do.”

I climbed inside the machine, favoring my bruised ribs. I folded down the little chessboard and reached for the pointer, but Jacques again gripped my arm painfully; inflicting pain seemed to be the only way he knew to communicate.

“
Mais écoutes,”
he said
.
“Do not try force the mechanism. Move it slowly and carefully. Remember that the Turk is sixty-five years old; some of his joints are a little stiff.”

I said nothing; I only nodded mechanically, like a clockwork boy.

If Jacques was pleased by my skill, he didn't let on—unless his way of showing approval was to refrain from hitting me when I clumsily knocked over a piece. In the days that followed, he continued to work on the automaton, tinkering with the gears, fitting brass hinges on the doors and installing them, touching up Otso's wax face—I had come to think of the Turk as Otso, and to see something a little wolf-like in his features.

Apparently satisfied that I could be careful, Jacques put me to work sanding and oiling the maple cabinet, which was worn and discolored by decades of use. But each afternoon I switched from the outside of the cabinet to the inside.

When I entered that felt-lined box, I felt a bit like Varney the Vampire climbing into his coffin. And in truth, being closed up in the cabinet was a good deal like being in a coffin—not that I've ever been in one. It was a little larger, I suppose, but the clockwork mechanism took up a good third of the space; there was barely enough left over for my small frame.

In order to see the miniature chessboard properly, I had to sit in an awkward position, with my knees drawn up and my head tilted forward. For a change, my rounded back actually worked in my favor. Still, after an hour or two, the cramped quarters took their toll on me.

If we kept the front and rear doors of the cabinet open, I got enough illumination from the window, but with the doors closed the interior was almost totally dark; I had to light a wax candle in order to see. I soon understood how Mulhouse had contracted his cough. The Turk's hollow torso was designed to serve as a sort of chimney through which the candle's heat and smoke could escape, but it worked imperfectly at best; if I kept the candle lit for very long, my eyes and throat began to sting.

Jacques wasn't much of a chess player, but he knew enough about the game to be my sparring partner, as it were. Once I got good at working the mechanical arm, I started experimenting with the levers that controlled the head and the eyes and the voice box. I learned that when Jacques made a foolish or illegal move—as he often did—I could get Otso to roll his eyes and shake his head, as though he couldn't believe anyone would be so dense. Even through the layers of felt and maple, I could hear Jacques cursing.

Late one afternoon, as I was preparing to trounce the poor fellow yet again, his game seemed to suddenly improve. He was obviously using a strategy, instead of just plodding along one move at a time. I began to think that maybe he'd been conning me all this time, pretending to be a rank beginner when in fact he knew his way around a chessboard.

I managed to prevail, but only barely, and with more than the usual amount of effort. I blew out the candle and sat there, waiting. Jacques had made it very clear that I was not to budge until he rapped on the cabinet. After a minute or two, the rear door opened and Jacques peered in. “Why are just
sitting
there?”

“You told me not to move until I got the signal.”

“Oh.” Grudgingly, he knocked on the cabinet in the same three-three-two pattern Mulhouse had used on the day I arrived. When I emerged, blinking in the daylight, I found Maelzel bent over the board, examining the position of the pieces. So he, not Jacques, had been my opponent for most of the game.

“Very clever,” he said, but not to me. He spoke to Jacques instead, as though I weren't there. “The boy is doing well.”

Jacques spat out a stream of tobacco juice and gave a brusque nod. “Well enough.”

Maelzel looked me over critically. “He looks a bit thin and pale to me.”

“He was thin and pale when he came here.”

“All the same, we want to keep him healthy. Is he getting enough to eat?”

“He never complains.”

“Hmm. And does he complain when you hit him?”

“
Non
. That is—I mean—”

“I know you and your temper, Jacques. Do not strike him too hard. We do not want to damage his organ of Locality.” He glanced at the chessboard again. “He is making good progress. We will bring in Mulhouse tomorrow, to show him the Knight's Tour.” Maelzel headed for the door.

Ignoring Jacques's rule, I called after him, “I can do the Knight's Tour already.”

Now, if you're not an avid chess player, you may not know about the Knight's Tour. It's fairly simple to explain. You see, it's a sort of puzzle, or challenge. You start out with the knight on any square, then move it around the board in its usual pattern. The object is to land on each of the sixty-four squares once, and
only
once. That may sound easy enough, but I assure you it's not. I struggled with it for several days before I found a solution. Of course, I
was
only seven at the time.

Maelzel turned back and, for the first time, spoke to me directly. “From any square on the board?”

“Yes.”

“Show me,” he said. I began clearing the big board, but he stopped me. “No, no. From
in
side the cabinet.”

I shrugged. “All right.” I'd never tried a Knight's Tour using the Turk, so I made a few false starts. But on the fourth try, I performed the feat flawlessly—and then I sat, dutifully waiting, until I got the signal to emerge.

Maelzel was smiling with self-satisfaction, like a man who has gotten more than he bargained for in a business deal. “Who taught you to do that?”

“No one. I taught myself.”

He turned to Jacques. “It looks as if the boy will be ready sooner than we thought.”

“Ready for what?” I asked.

“Why, to perform in public.”

“Where?”

The man's smile faded. “You ask far too many questions. Let me see your head.” As he had done at our first meeting, he clamped his fingers on my skull and examined it roughly. “Ah, yes, I see now that your organ of Causality is much larger than normal. I missed that before.”

“Causality?” I said.

“The desire to know.” He probed the spot that he had identified before as the seat of Cautiousness. “Hmm. Causality and Caution. A curious combination. But I like curiosities. And I like curious people; without them, I would be out of business. Very well. You wish to know where you will be performing, and I shall show you. Come.”